If
by Elma MacBetsy
Summary: And sometimes he can't help but wonder...if it weren't for his leg...if things had been different...would he still be here now?


**This is a oneshot that sort of got away from me... Due to living in Britain and not having cable, I have yet to see season 6, and probably won't see season 7 until this time next year. So, instead, I've been diving in to the boxsets of the first few seasons. This is sort of set in 'Words and Deeds'. Any lines of dialogue that you recognise have been borrowed from the series for my own uses.**

* * *

Sometimes, when things got bad – like when he's sitting in a courtroom awaiting the sentence that could take everything away from him – he couldn't help himself wondering.

_If it weren't for the leg…_

_If I hadn't had the infarction…_

_If things had been different…_

_Would I still be here now?_

OoO

When the doctor sends him home with a diagnosis of muscle strain, he's not convinced. He's also not reassured. He has torn ligaments, ripped tendons and pulled muscles before. It's _never_ felt like this, which is why he's struggling to ignore the frightening, nagging question playing at the back of his mind: _what if…_?

But he knows that if he had been in the clinic doctor's place, he would have said exactly the same, because it's correct the majority of the time. He has no real reason to think that it's anything else, except that it _could_ be. So he swallows his doubts and follows the doctor's orders, rests his leg, lets Stacy bring him ibuprofen and heat packs and chicken soup.

After three days only a slight twinge remains; he plays a round of golf with Wilson at the weekend, and very soon the whole thing is just added to his long list of barely remembered sports injuries.

OoO

He slams the front door when he comes home and heads straight to the cabinet that he knows will contain strong liquor. He's not disappointed. He manages to knock back two shots of bourbon before Stacy reaches him. She places a hand against his shoulder blade and starts rubbing gentle circles.

"Bad day at work?" She asks. His answer is to pour a third shot, but slender fingers wrap securely around his wrist before he can get it to his mouth. "Greg, talk to me." He frowns, shrugs the hand off of his shoulder and pulls away from her grasp. He tips the alcohol down his throat and slams the glass down heavily on the sideboard, the thud sounding deafening in the silence of the room. He spins around to face Stacy.

"They _fired_ me!" He yells. Her expression immediately turns sympathetic, but he doesn't _want_ that right now, so he turns away from her again. He clenches his fist around the bottle but makes no move to lift it. "Patient's whiny, overfed, undersexed husband wouldn't accept that the _love of his life_ loved her yoga instructor or tennis coach or co-worker or who-gives-a-fuck-what just a bit more than she loved him." He hears Stacy moving towards him again. "Patient falls into a coma, husband refuses to treat. I search their apartment, find all the proof I need to save her life, so she can carry on opening her legs to every cock that comes her way. Second her eyes open, I get charged with _breaking and entering_!" He brings the bottle to his lips and swallows a few mouthfuls.

"Do I need to get your suit cleaned, then?" Stacy asks. She's not surprised – it's not the first time he's had trouble like this – but he can hear a distinct note of concern in her voice, no matter how hard she tries to hide it, and that softens his anger a tiny bit. He feels his tense shoulders relax some, and Stacy apparently takes this as her cue to try comforting him again, because she takes the last step towards him and wraps her arms around his waist from behind.

"No," he answers with far more control than before. "The hospital lawyer had a word with her. But I'm still out." He finally releases the bottle and turns away from it, pulling Stacy tightly to his chest in the same motion. He presses his forehead to the side of her neck, and breathes deeply, trying to calm down fully.

"Their loss," Stacy tells him, and he doesn't doubt her for a second, because he _knows_ that from a purely medical standpoint, he's the best there is. But it takes more than that to work as a doctor.

"Princeton General'll never give me a decent reference. Neither will either of the last two hospitals I worked at," he reminds her. He can't keep getting hired on reputation alone, because sooner or later his reputation as a risk-taking, rule-breaking, patient-hating doctor will overshadow all of his skill and credentials, at least in the eyes of hospital deans.

"What about Princeton-Plainsboro'?" She asks. "James carries a lot of weight there – maybe they'll accept a personal reference from him?" He wants to shoot the idea down, because he _hates_ asking Wilson for help, but he can't deny that the idea makes sense.

"I know their new dean," he tells her, lifting his head. She smiles at him, and he can't help but return it, amazed at how quickly she's managed to turn his mood. He catches her mouth in a passionate kiss that quickly turns hungry, and Stacy proceeds to make him forget everything short of his own name.

OoO

Lisa Cuddy, it turns out, is very open to House's suggestions. Of course she remembers him from her undergrad days, she says, how could she not? His iffy record of employment doesn't bother her in the slightest. Wilson's ironed out any concerns she might have otherwise had, she assures him.

"I'm willing to work in any department, really," he tells her when she asks. He's pleased when she doesn't just tell him to stick to his specialties – his reputation can't be too damaged yet. "But what I'd really like to do is set up a department of diagnostics. Not many hospitals have them – at least not yet. I think it could be a real boost to Princeton-Plainsboro'." Cuddy is new – young – and very keen to stand out, to take the hospital in new directions. She hires him on the spot.

He goes home, and can't help the stupid grin on his face when he tells Stacy. Her smile is almost as bright – she knows how long he's wanted this. And now he gets to head up his own department!

"Just don't forget us little people, oh Chief Diagnostician!" She jokes. He laughs along with her and promises her that he won't, that he _couldn't_.

Later, as they lie beside each other, Stacy cups his cheek with her hand.

"I'm so proud of you, Greg," she tells him.

He falls asleep revelling in the feeling of being loved.

OoO

He tiptoes around the bedroom and slides oh-so-carefully into bed beside an already sleeping Stacy. She'll be mad enough in the morning as it is, even without him waking her up in the middle night. He'd _meant_ to call her. He really had. But he'd got so wrapped up in his case. Nothing added up and he just couldn't figure it out…

It's not as bad as it could be, though, because he's fairly certain that Wilson had phoned her the night before when he hadn't come home at all. All the same, there's going to be a major fight in the morning. Or probably when they both get home from work. Which, he admits to himself, more than a little guiltily, could easily end up not being for a couple of days. He sighs and lets his eyes fall closed. Yes, there'll be hell to pay. But there's no point worrying about it now.

OoO

The realisation that he doesn't _want_ to go home takes him by surprise. It's been another late night, but he knows Stacy'll still be awake when he gets home, because she's decided that tonight they're going to 'talk'. He grimaces – he thinks he might actually prefer fighting to 'talking'. At least then there's angry makeup sex afterwards. Although not of late… He guesses Stacy is just too annoyed with him usually for there to be sex of any kind. But _dammit_ she _knew_ what it was going to be like when he got his job! The caseload is light, but each case is intense and can take days to solve, and she _knew_ that, just like she _knew_ when she met him for the first time that he was completely devoted to his work. She used to like that about him, just as he likes it about her. Now it's just more fuel to the fire.

And now she wants to talk. And she'll ask him to try harder, to make more time for their relationship. Well, he's already putting in as much effort as he can, at least when he's not working. He can't do anything more. He leans back in his desk chair far enough to look out over the balcony into Wilson's office. The light is still on, and he remembers that Wilson's wife is out of town, so he'll be taking the opportunity to stay late and catch up on paperwork without feeling guilty about it. An idea forms in House's mind. He picks his backpack up off the desk and slings it over his shoulder, and then heads out of the door, climbs the wall separating their balconies and walks into Wilson's office.

"You busy?" He asks. Wilson looks up, and a look of surprise registers on his face.

"I thought you'd have been well on your way out of here, by now," he comments. House shrugs.

"You wanna go out?" He suggests. Wilson tilts his head, frowning in the same way House knows _he_ does when he's trying to solve a puzzle. "C'mon, we'll hit one of those sleazy bars that you hate, I'll start a fight with some bastard twice my size, you'll charm him into buying us our next round of drinks, and then we'll pass out at your place early tomorrow morning." Wilson just tilts his head to the other side, and then nods as if he's just had something confirmed to him. He knows, House realises, exactly what's going on. Which makes sense, seeing as he's spent just as many nights at the hospital as House has, recently.

"I have the whole weekend to do this," he gestures to the mass of papers and files in front of him. "So sure. Just give me a sec."

OoO

The night goes exactly as House predicts it would, and he wakes up on Wilson's couch early Saturday afternoon. He groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyelids. He has the _mother_ of all hangovers and just wants to climb into a hole somewhere and die, but Wilson, of course, has to ruin things. He appears in the living room, already showered, dressed and, given that he's not hunched over and moaning as House is, has apparently taken the dose of painkillers required on mornings like these. He perches on the arm of the sofa.

"You going to head home now?" House winces at the question. This had seemed like a fantastic idea last night, but now…

"Geez, can't a guy at least get a cup of coffee before the service kick him out?" Wilson doesn't answer, just gives him the same frown he had yesterday.

"You'll regret it even more, if you don't go now." His advice carries the weight of a man who knows what he's talking about, so for once House doesn't argue. James Wilson is definitely not a man who knows how to maintain a relationship. But he's got a hell of a lot more experience than House does, so he leaves and goes home.

The argument is as bad as he thought it was going to be. House can't pretend that he was working because he reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap scotch. He can't pretend that he forgot because Stacy phoned during her lunch break to ask him to be home on time. He can't pretend that he didn't have time to call so that she wouldn't have waited for him, wouldn't have worried. And he can't pretend that he stayed out for anything other than selfish reasons. He arrives home at six on the dot every night for the next week, but he still ends up sleeping on the couch.

OoO

When Stacy confesses that she's seeing someone else – Mark someone – House can't say he's surprised. They've been distant for months, now. More and more frequently, he'd been coming home to an empty house and a short message on the answering machine. If Stacy had really been working on a case, like she claimed, and not just trying to give herself an alibi, she wouldn't have phoned at all because she would know that he was most likely doing the same. So he wasn't surprised. But he was hurt.

"I'm sorry," she tells him.

"I wouldn't be," he says honestly. She doesn't argue. She's not really sorry, at all.

"I hate you," she says, looking up at with tears in her eyes that refuse to fall. "And I love you. And I love Mark."

"You don't hate him." She shakes her head, even though it was an obvious statement.

"What's so great about you is that you always think you're right. What's so frustrating about you is you are right so much of the time." They both almost smile at each other, but neither quite manages it. "You are brilliant, funny, surprising, sexy…" Her voice wavers. "But with you I'm lonely…and with Mark there's room for me." He nods once. He appreciates her honesty, just as he imagines she knew he would. He can't fight her on his, because it would be a lie. Everything she's said has been the truth. He can't pretend anymore that he loves her more than the puzzles and mysteries that come with his job.

She waits for a few seconds, as if hoping that he'll say something, but he stands in complete silence starting at some point just a little bit to her right. She sighs, picks up her last bag and walks out of his life forever. One day of packing, one awkward conversation, and it's as if she was never there at all.

OoO

"You're an idiot," says Wilson the second House opens his eyes. He blinks once. Twice. Again. The lights above his head are too bright. Everything else seems distant. Wilson's voice is more muffled than it should be. When he tries to move his hand it feels like he's meeting more resistance than he should. And his body feels strangely weightless. He focuses all his attention on turning his head towards Wilson, and then on speaking.

"Wha' happened?" He slurs.

"You don't remember?" Fragments of events flicker just beyond his reach – not enough to build up the memory. He can only grasp hold of one clear fact.

"Stacy's gettin' married…" Wilson's expression softened.

"I wondered…" he admits. "Well, you got _spectacularly_ drunk and decided it would be a good idea to take your motorcycle out at 2am."

"Stacy…bought it for me." House explains. "When I got m' job here." Wilson nods.

"I know she did. She probably didn't think that even you were _this_ stupid though." An affectionate smile falls across Wilson's face.

"Wha' I do?" House asks again. The effort of staying awake is beginning to seem more trouble than it's worth, and he hopes Wilson hurries up with whatever he wants to say. Wilson's expression sobers.

"Booze and bikes don't mix, House. You crashed it into the back of a parked truck. You've broken your right clavicle and cracked a couple of ribs, but you'll be alright." Wilson's face hardens further. "You're lucky they're not taking your licence away. What were you _thinking_?! You could have been killed, House! You could have got someone else killed! You're a doctor, for Christ's sake! You know the consequences of drunk driving better than anyone!" House lets Wilson rant, waiting patiently for him to finish before he asks the question that's burning a hole in his brain.

"Is m' bike ok?" Wilson stares at him in shock.

"Is your…?" Suddenly, Wilson is angrier than House thinks he's ever seen him. "For fuck's sake, House! Did you just listen to a word I said?!" He doesn't wait for an answer. "No your bike's not fucking ok! It's completely trashed, just like _you_ nearly were!" A wave of sadness hits him when he hears about his bike, his last connection to Stacy, but it's not enough to stop his eyes from drifting shut again. He finds Wilson's raving surprisingly comforting, although he's not really taking much of it in anymore, and he falls asleep again within minutes.

Wilson's there to drive him home when he's been discharged. They pass the car journey in silence, House toying absently with the bottle of his newly prescribed Vicodin. When they park in front of House's apartment, a hand on House's arm stops him from moving. He meets Wilson's gaze with surprise, and can tell immediately that they're about to have a conversation neither of them will enjoy.

"House…" Wilson begins awkwardly, because talking about his feelings doesn't come much easier to him than it does to House. "You scared me," he finally admits. "I…I can't be…You don't…" He gives up, shaking his head. "Don't do it again. _Please_." Remorse grows within House, although he doesn't say anything. He never meant to worry Wilson. Wilson was there when Stacy left, and he'll be here now, with her marriage. He'll be there to help House recover from his injuries, even though they're entirely his own fault. He's too good of a person to spend his time clearing up after House, so House resolves to try harder in the future.

OoO

He takes his first Vicodin when Wilson goes home for the night. He aches all over from his ribs and the bruises. His collar bone is agony. And yet despite that…the wedding invite from Stacy and the accompanying letter still hurt more. He curses the pills, because what he really wants to do tonight is climb into a bottle, but he knows damn well that meds and drink don't mix. He needs the relief from his pain, so the prescription bottle will have to do instead, even though he doesn't like it.

Ten minutes later, the wedding, the injuries and pretty much everything else in the world are all completely forgotten. He drifts pleasantly in and out of his drug induced sleep, and can't imagine caring about anything ever again.

"I need another scrip." He tosses the empty pill bottle into the open folder Wilson's holding.

"I'm not your doctor, House," Wilson reminds him, dropping the folder onto the countertop, and then frowns. "Is the pain still that bad? It really shouldn't be…" House shrugs, and then winces. He's not lying – his various cracked and broken bones still hurt like hell. Ok, maybe he could _tolerate_ it if he was taking something else. But he can't very well do his job if the pain is only at a tolerable level, can he? He needs a _gone_ level of pain to think…or to not think, as the case may be.

"Collar bone's still broken, right?"

"Right," Wilson agrees absently. "Well, if you're sure…" He pulls his prescription pad from his pocket and scrawls the order onto it. House slips it into his pocket and begins immediately for the pharmacy. "House!" Wilson's shout stops him in his tracks. "If the pain doesn't diminish within the next week or two, I think we should redo your x-rays, see if we missed something." House throws his response over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Sure!" He continues on his original path.

OoO

The x-rays never do get done. Wilson's been distracted recently by his own relationship problems – House suspects that his own breakup with Stacy has spurred Wilson to action. He also suspects that it's too little, too late. He predicts that wife number two will be out the door in a couple of months. In the meantime, he's just glad that he's been able to get another couple of prescriptions without Wilson questioning him.

Of course, his luck doesn't last. Wilson gives him a very funny look the next time he asks.

"Your accident was weeks ago. You're all healed up, House." House glares at him.

"You weren't saying that a week ago."

"_Less_ than a week ago." Wilson corrects. "I thought maybe you'd suffered some blunt tissue trauma that had somehow gone under the radar, and that was causing the excess pain…but I've been watching you, House. You're not in pain at all." House desperately wants to argue…but Wilson's right. He's been pain free for a while now. And he stopped taking the Vicodin for his physical injuries even before that. He won't be getting any more from Wilson now…and that's probably a good thing, House decides, so he nods once and normal conversation resumes.

OoO

Three days later, he desperately regrets his decision. This…_need_ for the drug has snuck up on him. He didn't even realise it was there until he could no longer fulfil it. His hands aren't as steady as they should be when he reaches for the whiskey bottle he keeps in his bottom desk drawer. He's had to turn the heat up in his office to full, because he can't stop shivering. He reaches up with his other hand to wipe away the sweat gathering on his forehead anyway. His brain helpfully supplies a diagnosis of _withdrawal_. What he wouldn't give just for a couple of those white pills just now… He misses the haze they bring that nothing else can get through. He'd forgotten how cold the world was without that.

He throws back the measure of scotch he has poured for himself, but it doesn't do any good. Alcohol just can't cut it anymore. He gazes sullenly around his office, trying to find something – _anything_ – that will distract him from the need burning within him. His eyes light upon the marble pestle and mortar sitting innocently at the side. A plan starts to form in his head.

OoO

"And it's…broken." Wilson lowers the x ray he's been examining. "What did you do?"

"Accidentally closed the car door on it." Wilson carefully lifts House's hand so he can see it better. He shakes his head.

"No. Door would have broken the skin." He gently angles House's hand towards the light. "_This_…looks like something hard and smooth _smashed_ it." He lets the hand drop none too lightly on the table. House grimaces.

"Ow! Watch it, will ya? It _hurts_!" Wilson folds his arms.

"I bet it does." His confident expression is replaced by one showing only hurt. "What is this, House?" He asks softly, and House finds that he can't quite meet his friend's eyes. "Are you…are you trying to _scam_ me?" House grits his teeth and stares off to the side, towards the door.

"This was a mistake," he mutters. Wilson steps back with a humourless laugh.

"You_ were_, weren't you? I can't believe you. You would-" He stops and shakes his head. "You would break your own hand and _lie_ to me about it just to-" He gives up, seemingly unable to say the words.

"You can't pin all this on me," House accuses. "You were perfectly willing to give me whatever I asked until this week!"

"Because I _trusted_ you! I thought if you said it hurt, then you meant it! I was…get this…_worried_ about you!" The anger leaves him suddenly and he turns away. For a second, House is overcome with guilt. But he doesn't really know what to do about it, so he pushes his way out of the room.

He presents his broken hand to Cuddy, tells her a book fell off the shelf onto it. She hands over the prescription he wants with very little prompting.

OoO

Of course, House thinks, it was only a matter of time before Wilson and Cuddy put their heads together. In fact, he's surprised it took them this long.

"You have a problem," Wilson begins what House guesses is probably a scripted intervention. Cuddy nods in agreement from her position next to Wilson. House remains seated at his desk.

"Actually, I think I'm the only one here who doesn't."

"You need help," Cuddy puts in. "The drug rehabilitation centre here is-"

"I'm _fine_!" House insists, slapping his hand down on the table for emphasis.

"You have an addiction!" Cuddy yells. "To a high grade narcotic!"

"I'm taking _prescription_ drugs, prescribed to me by two _very_ qualified doctors," he sneers at them.

"Who you _lied_ to!" Wilson shoots back. House shrugs.

"Didn't lie. You saw the x rays. Broken clavicle, broken ribs, broken hand. Ergo…legitimate prescription for _pain_."

"You're not…" Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. "No. I'm not having this argument with you. This is it, House. It stops _here_." House narrows his eyes. This isn't quite how he'd expected things to go.

"I've arranged for you to take some time off work. You can check into the rehab here or any other facility of your choosing." Cuddy pauses. "Hell, you can even stay at home and detox in your own bed. I don't care; I just want you clean when you come back to work." She turns and marches briskly out of his office. Wilson takes a seat opposite House.

"So…what are you going to do?" House shrugs again.

"There's not a lot I _can_ do," he answers. Wilson nods, and then turns pleading eyes onto him.

"_Please_, House. Go to rehab. I hate seeing you like this. You're strong, you can-" House waves a dismissing hand at him.

"Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. You going now?" The hurt look that flashes across Wilson's face before he leaves is not missed by House. He sighs. He's _not_ going to rehab, no matter how much Wilson wants otherwise. Rehab is for junkies, for people who let the drugs control their lives. _He_ knows what he's doing. But…but maybe he'll make an effort. For Wilson.

His eyes drift over to Wilson's empty office across the balcony. Just in case, though…

OoO

When he picks up the Vicodin, at a pharmacy that is not in anyway affiliated to Princeton-Plainsboro' Teaching Hospital, he hates himself a little. He _tried_. He really did, because he remembered the promise he'd made to himself not to worry Wilson. So he stuck it out, put up with the misery withdrawal brought. For two days, before he just couldn't help it. Maybe he's not as strong as Wilson thinks he is after all.

He tells himself that it's mostly Wilson's own fault, anyway. Idiot should know better than to leave his prescription pad lying on his desk.

OoO

Turns out Wilson's sharper than he'd thought. Or at least House can't see any other reason why the other man would be standing in his living room less than a week after Cuddy ordered him off work.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Wilson asks in a dangerously quiet voice, shaking with barely concealed rage. "Did you think…when I saw that it was gone…your name_ wouldn't_ be the first on my list?" House shakes his head slightly, trying to clear his clouded mind.

"You're my friend. You're supposed to trust me." He says, because he knows he should say something.

"_Trust_?!" Wilson asks incredulously. "I'm supposed to _trust_ you?" He makes a barking sound which House thinks might be intended as laughter. "Tell me how I'm meant to do that, House! 'Cause right now I don't have a fucking clue." _I'm sorry_, House thinks. But the words don't make it out.

"I didn't mean-" He tries instead, but Wilson cuts him off.

"No, you never do, do you?" And then, in a softer voice: "I suppose it's not entirely your fault. Maybe I…maybe I should have known better than to trust you in the first place." A stab of hurt bursts through House's Vicodin shield. "I mean, that's what got you here in the first place, right? I gave you the benefit of the doubt, because I didn't see…" He shakes his head, and corrects himself. "I didn't _want_ to see that you would just throw it back in my face." Another stab. Without thinking, House reaches for the pills on the table that got him into this mess in the first place. The ones that got him into this conversation that he really can't handle. He thumbs off the cap and tips two…three…four pills into his palm.

All four fall to the ground when something hits his wrist with a huge amount of force. Wilson's hand.

"Fuck…" House groans. From the sudden pain, he would insist if asked, even if his eyes _are_ resting on the white tablets he's just failed to take.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Wilson demands, angry all over again. House lets himself collapse against the back of the couch with a dull thud.

"I just wanted-" He begins in a murmur. Wilson interrupts again.

"I don't _care_ what you _want_, House," he snaps.

"I know," House agrees quietly, because it's becoming increasingly difficult to do anything else. Wilson responds by digging his fingertips into his closed eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I…can't do this anymore," he admits. "I can't…_sit_ here and…and… _enable_ you in your…in this."

"No…" House tries to argue.

"I don't want to stand and watch this consume you. I _won't_." House shifts in his seat. He doesn't like where this is going. "Bottom line, House. If this – our friendship – means _anything_ to you…the drugs have to go. Or else I will." An ultimatum – House should have seen that coming. But he didn't, because Wilson has always been a constant, and the idea of him leaving is unimaginable.

For a long time, he's too shocked to say anything. Too long, apparently.

"Fine," Wilson says in a voice barely above a whisper. He moves towards the door.

House grabs his arm at the last second.

"Don't go."

OoO

He sits, barely upright, on the cold tiled floor of his bathroom, alternating been laboured breathing, sharp gasps and broken sobs.

"_Please_," he begs. "Please, Jimmy. Just one…I swear, just give me one…I won't take any more after that…just _please,_ Jimmy, _please_. I promise, Jimmy…_one_. _Fuck_, Jimmyjimmyjimmy_please_…oh God…" He leans over the toilet bowl as another wave of nausea sweeps over him and tries to vomit. Except he hasn't eaten in _forever_, so he just dry heaves before his shaking body drops weakly to the side.

Wilson hovers in the doorway, his expression registering half disgust and half pity. He jerks forwards as if about to come closer, but apparently changes his mind and stands firm where he is.

It's more than he deserves, House thinks, before the need gnawing at him starts snapping and he resumes his chanting.

"Oh _God_, _please_, Jimmy…"

OoO

Wilson takes one day off work for him, but says that he can't manage two. So House has to drive to the hospital – and wasn't that a _fun_ experience – to make his request. He's hoping Wilson will give him a scrip for metaclopamine. The nausea's bad, and he desperately wants to stop throwing up. They'd give him that in rehab, so he doesn't see why Wilson wouldn't oblige. Unless he hates him as much as he seems to now, and _wants_ him to suffer…

When he arrives at the hospital, Wilson doesn't seem to be around, so House checks his patient schedule. Zebalusky – Old guy dying of cancer. Now _there_'s a surprise. Something catches his eye, though. Something that distracts him from metaclopamine.

He jogs down the corridor, his exhausted, aching limbs forgotten. He pauses just outside of the glass sliding doors of the patient's room. He can see Wilson, a chart tucked under his arm, speaking, presumably to the patient and/or loved one, although House can't see anybody else from where he's standing.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Wilson says in his softest, most comforting, reserved-for-grieving-family-members voice. "I know it's little solace but he went without pain." House turns and presses his back against the wall, head tilted backwards. He can't believe he's considering this… Somehow it seems worse than forging Wilson's name, even though it's really the same principle. But he feels sick to his stomach, and it has nothing to do with ethics. It makes up his mind for him. Wilson won't be talking to the widow for that much longer, so he doesn't have much time to do this without being seen.

He heads back the way he's just come, walking this time so as not to attract unnecessary attention to himself.

He still manages to reach the pharmacy in record time.

"Picking up a script for Zebalusky," he states confidently. He makes sure his hands are well behind the counter to hide the trembling. The pharmacist eyes him suspiciously anyway.

"That's Dr. Wilson's patient." He bites back a snarky reply, though it's difficult. He's running short on patience right now.

"Yeah, Wilson's busy right now what with Mr Zebalusky _dying_ in agony on account of his metastatic lung cancer and not having the pills to relieve that agony because of some moron pharmacist!" He doesn't quite shout, but it has the same effect. Pharmacists don't tend to question doctors, especially _angry_ doctors.

Less than a minute later, he has the pills in hand. It takes all the willpower he has not to swallow some down there and then, but somehow he manages to make it to the stairwell. He takes two of the Oxycodone without thinking, and then another two before he can stop himself. He looks around again, making sure the area is still deserted before he takes a couple more and re-caps the bottle, sliding it into his pocket.

He sighs contentedly. The relief is almost immediate. He can hold his hands steady. He no longer feels like he's going to puke his guts up everywhere. Instead he feels light and slightly…euphoric. Why did he ever think he'd be better off without this?

As he approaches the car, he's forced to admit that he may have overdone it slightly. The Oxy is a little stronger than the Vicodin, after all… He staggers slightly and leans a hand against the bonnet for support, and is suddenly struck by a memory of stumbling out of his apartment to the road below, reaching for his bike with difficulty as the alcohol clouded his vision…and that in turn reminds him again of the promise he made to himself…the promise not to mess up, for Wilson's sake…the promise he's never broken so badly until today.

But he doesn't want to think like that, doesn't want to feel bad for what he's doing. So he pulls open the car door and slips into the driver's seat before he can.

OoO

He hadn't even noticed he was speeding when he gets pulled over. He'd just been desperate to get home, to have as much time as possible free of responsibility before someone (Wilson) noticed something was wrong.

The cop steps up to his open window and flashes a badge. House just manages to catch a glimpse of the name – Detective Tritter – before it's gone.

"Are you aware that you were going forty in a twenty-five zone?" He asks. House sighs.

"Guess I lost track of my speed, _officer_," he replies, and _fuck_ if that was ever the wrong tone to use…

"Licence, registration, proof of insurance," Tritter demands. God, he wants another pill…

"Oh, come on!" House scoffs instead. "This isn't because I was speeding, it's because I'm Latino." He's even higher than he thought, he realises, because that little voice of reason that tells him it's _fucking moronic_ to mock a cop is strangely absent.

Tritter regards him coolly for a few seconds.

"Sir, would you step out of the car?" House sighs, but complies because what the hell kind of choice does he have? The movement makes his head swim. He prays to a God he doesn't even believe in that he won't start swaying.

"I wasn't weaving," House tries to defend himself, even though he can't say for certain that it's true. "I'm not drunk," but he's not damn well sober, either. "You've got no reason to-"

"Pupils dilated," Tritter breaks in, staring intently at his face. "You appear to be under the influence of a narcotic. Would you mind turning around, please, and putting your hands behind your head?" He was wrong before: he wants two pills. But he doesn't argue, just raises his hands, as directed.

He screws his eyes shut as the cop pats him down, awaiting the inevitable. Sure enough, Tritter reaches the pocket which suddenly feels like it's burning a hole through his flesh. The foreign hand slides inside his coat and reappears with House's prize.

"Mr…Zebalusky?" Tritter pronounces the name hesitantly. "These your pills?" House moves his head in a way that _could_ be interpreted as a nod but that he thinks he can probably get away with if 'yes' is the wrong answer. "Sir, in future I think you should read the labels on your medication more carefully. It's unadvised to drive when taking such strong painkillers." House opens first one eye, and then the other. Is he actually going to get away with this? He lowers his hands slowly. No reaction. He turns around to face the detective. No reaction.

"Sure, officer." He agrees easily. "I hadn't realised, but I'll take more care next time." He's gotten away with it. He's gotten away with it! Hip-hip-hoo-_fucking_-ray, he's gotten a-

"I just need to see some identification." House stares at him, eyes wide, mouth open. "Your licence will do," he continues. "Just anything to confirm that this is all legit." He offers an understanding smile. "Standard procedure, y'know?" House shakes his head as firmly as he can.

"No," he tries to insist. The smile fades from Tritter's face.

"Sir, I'm not arresting you. You're not in any trouble. I just need ID, ok?"

"No!" House repeats more vehemently. Tritter's expression turns stony.

"Sir, if you refuse to cooperate, I _will_ have grounds to arrest. Do you really want that?" House wilts. He's going down either way, then. Best to just get it over with.

He leans in through the car window and reaches over the seats to the glove compartment where he knows Wilson has put all the important documents for an incident just such as this. He finds his licence, retrieves it, and stares resolutely at the ground. A deathly silence seems to fall over them as Tritter takes in the new information.

"_This_," he begins, gesturing with the licence, "says that _you_ are Dr. Gregory House, and not, in face, Mr. Zebalusky. Could you explain that to me?" House swallows and tries to come up with a believable excuse. He regrets taking so many of the pills before he left, now. His mind is too foggy to think through the situation properly

"Yes," he says with as much confidence as he can muster. "I can explain. Mr. Zebalusky is my patient. I'm…taking his pills…to him." He hopes he's managed to keep the questioning note out of his voice. Tritter simply raises an eyebrow.

"So why did you claim to be Zebalusky, then? And – more importantly – if you're really just delivering these pills…what _have_ you been taking?" House returns his gaze to the floor. "I don't know who this Zebalusky is. I don't know how you got his pills. But I'd bet anything, _doctor_, that if I tested you right now…I _would_ find opiates in your system." House swallows again, harshly. Then, before he knows what's happening, he's been twisted round, slammed against the side of his car and handcuffed.

"Gregory House, you are under arrest for the illegal possession of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

OoO

"Did they tell you why I'm here?" House asks Wilson through the bars of the jail cell.

"Yes, they did." Wilson's voice is ice cold, and he's looking anywhere but at House.

"But you came anyway," House states. A feeling of warmth spreads through his stomach. Of course Wilson would come. Good ol' dependable Wilson. Someone you can trust. Someone you can rely on. Someone who _cares_.

Wilson snorts.

"Because I'm an idiot," he mutters. Some of the warmth dissipates. "They want fifteen-thousand dollars for your bail. I'm trying to decide if it's worth it." Now it pretty much disappears.

"Wilson…Jimmy…" Wilson holds up a hand.

"_Don't_," he snaps, and looks pretty close to tears. "I don't want to hear it."

"Wilson…" House implores again, anyway. "I know I screwed up. I'm _sorry_."

"No you're not!" Wilson exclaims loudly. "You stole a _dead man's_ pills! You weren't sorry then. You weren't sorry before, about the prescriptions. Or about breaking your hand, or about lying to Cuddy, or about lying to me! And you're not sorry now, about this." He finally looks at House, looks at where he is and how what he looks like. "Well, maybe you are sorry about this," he acquiesces. "But you sure as hell aren't sorry for my sake." House looks away.

"Please don't leave me here," he almost pleads, fear creeping into his voice. "Please get me out. I-I'll stop the Vicodin. I'll go to rehab! I'll do it right, this time. I just need another chance…" Wilson breathes out forcefully through his nose.

"I'll post your bail," he says. "And I'll drive you home. After that, we're done. You can do whatever the hell you want." He turns on his heel walks away, but only gets a couple of steps before he stops and whirls back around. "I've got no wife, no kids… I don't even have a _home_! I've only got two things that work for me: my job and this stupid screwed-up friendship!" He scrubs a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe away the tears that have started to fall. For the first time in his life, House has the urge to hug his friend. But, of course, he can't. "You don't give a damn about either one of those. I do. You've already torn through one. I won't let you take the other." His voice cracks. "If they come to me…if they ask questions…I'm not going to lie for you. I'm not risking my career." The tears fall harder, just short of full on crying. House can't help himself. He extends his arm through the barrier, reaching for Wilson. His fingers manage to brush against his arm before Wilson jerks back, as though burned. He makes for the door, hesitating before crossing the boundary.

"I…I can't save you this time, House," he whispers, barely audibly, without looking back. "I'm sorry." And he's gone.

OoO

Cuddy had come to him before the trial. She had gazed up at him with eyes filled with unshed tears. She'd clutched his hand and he'd let her because he's scared out of his mind and wanted some comfort too. She'd told him how sorry she was. How it shouldn't have been this way. She says if there was _anything_ she could have done to stop this, she would have done it, without thinking. But the evidence is too conclusive – which is his own damn fault, anyway.

He was caught with prescription drugs that weren't his.

His signature was there in the pharmacy records, marking him as the one to pick up Mr. Zebalusky's drugs.

The time stamp shows this to have occurred sometime after Mr. Zebalusky's death.

The police tracked down various prescriptions in House's name, supposedly signed by Dr. James Wilson.

True to his word, Wilson had denied all knowledge of them.

He's been charged with forgery, fraud, theft, and illegal possession of narcotics. It's an open and shut case. No complications. No arguments. No doubts.

House sits in the defendant's chair, fighting symptoms of withdrawal mixed in with the affects of fear, guilt and a healthy dose of self-hatred.

He looks over his shoulder every five minutes just in case he's missed him and really Wilson_has_ shown up.

He waits for the sentence that could take everything away from him, even though he's not sure he has anything left.

And he can't help himself wondering.

_If things had been different…_

_Would I still be here now?_


End file.
